Most of the literature in the entranceway to the bar is targeted towards bears and leather daddies, and Sam is mildly concerned before he gets a look around and finds that not only is this place not some kind of fetish club, but it isn't exactly jam-packed either. There's only a handful of men inside, most of them gathered around a single booth, talking and laughing loudly under a painted mural of what Main Street must have looked like in the sixties. There are a couple of stragglers having beers by their lonesome at the bar, where a bartender dressed in denim overalls and a fur vest is trying to entice them into conversation with limited success.
The hook-up idea is looking less and less likely by the minute, Sam thinks with less regret than he might expect.
He pulls up a seat at the bar anyway, smiling pleasantly when the bartender turns to greet him.
"Hey, there," the man says. "I don't recognize you."
"First time," Sam tells him, sliding his I.D. across the countertop for his perusal. "Um, can I just get one of whatever you've got on tap?"
"Sure," the bartender replies pleasantly, turning around to get the beer and then craning his neck to continue the conversation. "So what's your name?"
"It's Sam."
"Well, nice to meet you, Sam! I'm Phil, the owner. You new in town?"
"I'm just passing through," Sam tells him, accepting the glass and taking a long swallow.
"Well, that's too bad," Phil says. "We're usually busier than this, but Tuesday's not our best night. Trying to get some things started during the week to fix that, though."
He gestures towards a white board over Sam's shoulder that lists a handful of special events including a weekly drag show, Jeopardy Mondays, a potluck, and an upcoming Military Fetish Night.
"You going to be in town long?"
"Just tonight, sorry," Sam says.
"Too bad," Phil repeats, shaking his head.
Sam takes another big gulp, scanning the room for anyone who looks unattached and semi-palatable.
"I like your necklace," Phil says, gesturing to the pentacle. "You into that occult stuff?"
Sam shrugs.
"A little."
"You came to the right place, then," Phil tells him with a wide grin. "Did you know that Sidetracks is Arkansas' only authenticated paranormal phenomena bar?"
"I did not know that," Sam says with carefully schooled features.
And where exactly do you go to get that authenticated? he wonders.
"That's right," Phil continues. "People have been reporting ghostly activity here since as early as the 1920s."
"Wasn't the place built in twenty-nine, Phil?" an amused voice asks over Sam's shoulder. "What is this, Indian burial ground?"
Sam turns his head. The speaker is a man who looks to be in his mid to late twenties. He's tall, probably almost as tall as Sam himself, with a shock of gelled-up ginger hair and a scatter of freckles stretching across his broad nose and down his neck to pepper his muscular forearms.
"Give me two shots of tequila, would ya?" he asks the bartender, settling down onto the stool next to Sam.
Sam gives him a nod in greeting and takes another swallow of his beer.
"You gotta watch out for Phil," the guy says in a loud, fake whisper. "He'll talk your head off. See, he's really into the idea of this place being, like, Cheers for queers. You know, where everybody knows your name."
Phil shakes his head with a good-natured grin.
"I do know everybody's name," he says, setting the shots down on the bar. "Hell, I know their shoe sizes."
"I'm Matt. And a size twelve, if you were wondering," the guy tells Sam with a wink, once the bartender has left them alone. He slides one of the shots over to Sam. "You looked like you needed a save."
"Thanks," Sam says, toying with the glass.
Matt gives him a grin, eyes tracing him up and down. He raises the shot toward Sam with an eyebrow wiggle and then swallows it down, freckled throat bobbing.
By the time Matt sticks the slice of lime between his plush, pink lips, Sam's already sold. He takes his own shot quickly, feeling the familiar burn as the alcohol sliding down his throat, already making him feel light and floaty and way, way better about this whole idea.
"Want one more?" Matt asks him, watching with twinkling blue eyes as Sam sets the glass down on the bar with slow care.
"Yeah, sure," he says.
It can't hurt.
"Kind of a cheap drunk, aren't ya?" Matt says after Sam has finished two shots and the rest of the beer and can't seem to get his barstool to stop moving under him.
"M'not," Sam slurs sullenly.
"You're a big guy, too," Matt continues. "I figured I'd be buying you drinks for at least an hour before you stopped looking like you were ready to bolt. I'm kind of embarrassed for you."
"Had an empty stomach," Sam grouches. "Jerk."
Matt laughs, but he doesn't call Sam a bitch.
Of course he doesn't. Why would he?
"Need to walk it off, there, chief?" Matt jokes when Sam tries to turn back to the bar and nearly spills off onto the carpet. "We can go play ghost hunters upstairs if you want. Unless it's too spooky for ya."
Sam snorts.
"This place is not haunted."
Matt cranks an eyebrow.
"Oh, yeah? How can you be so sure?" he asks with a grin.
Sam smirks at him.
"'Cause I'm psychic," he says definitively.
And because I checked my EMF reader while you were ordering the second round of shots.
Matt chuckles.
"Psychic, huh? Like Ghost Whisperer?"
Sam shakes his head emphatically, even though it makes him feel kind of queasy.
"I can see the future," he confides in a hushed voice.
"Yeah?" Matt asks merrily. "Well, then let me ask you: How do you see the rest of this night going?"
Sam is slightly too tipsy and altogether too bad at flirting to come up with a response to that. Luckily, Matt seems to have him covered there. He slides a hand over Sam's knee and leans in closer.
"Want me to tell you what I think?"
Sam just nods stupidly. Matt moves in closer until his lips are grazing Sam's ear, hot puff of breath tickling his cheek. He spells like spearmint and cigarettes.
"I think you and me are gonna get out of here," he whispers. "I think we're gonna go get a room somewhere, and then I'm gonna fuck you into the mattress."
He presses his lips against a spot behind Sam's ear that sends a pleasant thrill down his spine.
"That sound good?"
The hand on Sam's knee gives a gentle squeeze. It's a nice hand, big and freckled with blunt, square nails. Sam likes it.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, it does."